Thursday, November 27, 2014

Ask me for a blanket and I will produce a thread.
We can each hold an end and vibrate a song in praise of pioneers.

The Conestoga part of my heart can only let you in a little.
I will gladly feed you beans and lard, watch the flames pony-prance untamed shadows across your face.

We have the same connective tissue inside our more-than-private bodies.
It resembles a very long river, difficult to cross.

If I were an antelope, you might be a prairie hare.
If I a sheep, you, an Australian cattle dog.

We have known one another throughout many incarnations.
One time I came to you as lightning, you, the fierce, almost-soothing rain.

Bio: George Kalamaras,
Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven
chapbooks, including Kingdom of
Throat-Stuck Luck, winner of the Elixir Press Poetry Prize (2011). He is
Professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, where
he has taught since 1990.

Bio:Ryan
Frisinger is a professor of English, holding an M.F.A. in Writing from
Lindenwood University. He is also an accomplished songwriter, whose work has
been featured in numerous television shows, such as America's Next Top Model and The
Real World. His non-musical writing has appeared in such publications as
Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The MacGuffin, and Punchnel's. He resides in
Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his more-talented wife and couldn’t-care-less cat.

I drink in his beauty for free
in a lecture hall packed with lit students under duresssigned inpenned
and I contemplate the abstract and the concrete
along a straight diagonal line –at the far end Kinnellpawing his glassessinging of swifts and frogs
rescuedwhen one has been a long time alone . . . at the near end a row ahead of mewithin a hand’s reachkhakied knees raised to chin
levelblack hair rich with brown
hintslike chocolate cakea third his age half minea freshly made human doing what
Galway says a poem doesdoing the job to beleaving it to the apprehenderto make of her a loverdaughtermoment

Galwayon course in the face of beauty
takes beauty he’s made and makes it new
while Iserenesadby
no means covetous
weigh his words and weigh
her black untroubled eyes
her wide tan cheeks pure as infancy
her enormous pantaloons denying her figure like a nun’s habitall this I take in and feel
poetryits ache

Bio: Dan Carpenter is a freelance writer and former newspaper
staffer, living in Indianapolis. He has published poems in Flying Island,
Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, Southern Indiana Review,
Maize, Tipton Poetry Journal and other journals.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

We all have obstacles to climb,
personal barriers or demons to get over, physical or mental challenges to
overcome. These are the things that build character, that turn followers into
leaders. The question I pose is this: How much can you endure before you cease
to build character, before you don’t build into a leader and are yourself
destroyed? How much can you take?

When my
headaches began over two decades ago, I felt my body as a blanket, a thick,
heavy quilt. I hung on a clothesline as Evil stood beside me, wielding a
baseball bat, inflicting pain every few seconds, over and over. Back then the
pain was just beginning; improbably, it seemed less intense as now. Over time
and the continuous beatings, the blanket has worn thinner.In those eight thousand days, I have
transformed to a thin sheet, something even a homeless person would discard.

Each day I
receive my beatings through all sorts of conditions, through all the seasons. I
hang there and look to the heavens, feeling the heat of the sun, the wind on my
face, and then it slides down my body just as the bat hits me once again. In
the winter, the snow feels good against my skin, reviving me, but making the
sting of the bat that much worse. My body, my blanket, is more brittle in the
winter. The Evil one knows this, adding a little extra to each swing.The bat strikes me on my body, but I feel the
pain on my head, at my temples.

Five
concussions over a long period of time, beginning in high school, have given me
these headaches. Over the years, I have gone to doctors, the process and
results always the same. They subject me to blood tests, CT scans of the head,
MRIs of the brain and neck, and end up coming back with the same answer, “I’m
sorry, Mr. Krulik, but all the tests came back negative.”Does that mean my headaches don’t exist?

The first
doctor I went to for my headaches in the mid 80s suggested that it was probably
just stress. It would be five years before I would see another doctor, only to
hear from him, “It’s only headaches.” I found out the medical profession didn’t
take headaches and migraines very seriously. Later, when I saw a family doctor
in the 90s, he offered me scripts for Percocet, Darvocet, and Vicodin. I
refused because I drove for a living and I didn’t want to become addicted to
pain medication. Again I returned to the clothesline and my Tylenol, 16 a
day.

The Evil
one has had me engaged in a war of wills over the years. I have a high
tolerance for pain, but everyone has a breaking point. Eight thousand days of
unending pain is a long time, treated by only Tylenol. On the pain scale, my
headaches would reach an “8” and I would take three Tylenol, dropping it to a
“3” or “4” for thirty minutes to an hour and then it would begin its rise
again, and in three hours I would be back to that beloved “8.” Evil never left
me. Never.

As I hang
there, sometimes I look down and stare at Evil itself as it beats on me. The
body is not imposing. It is not superhuman at all, rather normal. I don’t look
at the face always, but when I do, it’s different each time. One time it’s the
face of the kid who gave me my first concussion in football as a sophomore in
Tucson, Arizona. The next time I look it might be the face of someone I
confronted while driving a cab a few years back. A few days ago I looked down
and Evil looked like the woman who hit me head-on and gave me my fourth
concussion in 1979.More often than not
it is Satan himself, complete with the classic horns.

Our two
kids are grown and have known for years that their dad takes a lot of Tylenol
or aspirin, although they don’t know the exact amount. My own parents, aunts,
uncles, and cousins all know I have headaches but don’t know the severity of
them. All my relatives, including my kids, see my temper has changed over the
years. Everyone just thinks Keith is a “hothead.” No questions are asked, but I
am lectured by my retired Colonel father. I say nothing. I would rather have
everyone think I’m a jerk than have them worry about my health. What would I
tell them anyway?

Each year
that passes the pain gets worse, the depression deepens. I can feel myself
slipping into a darkness I may not escape from, from a darkness I might not
want to escape from. I go to my granddaughter’s gymnastics meets and my
grandson’s baseball games, but I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be
anywhere. The pain crushes more than my head. It crushes my will. The Evil one
beats on not just me, but everyone around me.

Death is
something I think of. Because of ethical beliefs, I would never take my own
life, but I have already used my job as a cab driver to provoke the less than
righteous people into arguments and fights that would see me as a victim on the
late news, ending my pain for good. So far, I can’t even get that to happen.

My rock,
the love of my life, waits for me each evening. She is the only person on the
planet who knows how I feel, and yet I don’t tell her everything. I don’t tell
her my deepest fears.I don’t tell her how
I spent most of the day thinking of thirty different ways for me to die. I
don’t tell of the near misses, of the days when guns were drawn on me and I
secretly hoped the trigger would be pulled. She is on eggshells each night as I
come through the door, wondering what mood I will be in. She is hesitant to ask
me how my day went, for fear that I may snap, or almost as bad, say nothing at
all. The Evil one strikes me day after day, but he strikes the one I love more
than anyone each time he strikes me.

My body, my
blanket, wears thin. You can see through it now. Something has to be done. This
has to end. This has gone on much too long. One last doctor perhaps? Confront
one last bad guy?

Some things
remain constant. I am the blanket. The clock keeps ticking.

Keith Krulik lives in Indianapolis and just finished his first mystery/thriller novel to be published soon. He also contributes to a blog called FictionForgeIndy.com with three other friends, where Keith specializes in humorous postings. His next major project is an expansion of "The Blanket" into book form, the telling of his story of 25 years of chronic pain along with 18 years of on again, off again depression.

calligraphies like Jackson Pollock scrawls across the sidewalks of Tenth Street
leading toCrosstown in Bloomington IN.Bio: Hiromi
Yoshida has been described as one of Bloomington's "best writers" by Christopher
Harter, editor of Bathtub Gin, and as one of Bloomington's "finest and
most outspoken poets" by Tony Brewer, co-founder of Matrix organization.
Winner of multiple Indiana University Writers' Conference awards, Hiromi
Yoshida's poems have appeared in Borderline, Evergreen Review, Bathtub Gin, and
the Matrix anthologies of literary and visual arts.

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Flying Island, the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center is looking for the next Kurt Vonnegut. We accept previously unpublished submissions on a rolling basis from Indiana residents and those with significant ties to Indiana.* Fiction: up to 3,000 words,* Nonfiction: up to 1,500 words* Poetry: up to three poems, no more than 30 lines each.Publication will be ongoing, with posts from one to three times a week.